


coexisting with yourself

by ikuzonos



Category: Dangan Ronpa, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23745856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikuzonos/pseuds/ikuzonos
Summary: The first time he sees her, it's the first snow of the year.It's been three years. Saihara is trying to move on.
Relationships: Akamatsu Kaede/Saihara Shuuichi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 61





	coexisting with yourself

**Author's Note:**

> i got possessed by the spirit of 2017 sparrow and wrote this in 3 days

The first time he sees her, it’s the first snow of the year. 

Cold flakes slowly flutter down from the sky, coating every surface in sight. He holds a gloved hand up to the sky, and smiles at the sight of the little white specks. Something about them is comforting. Or maybe the world’s finally gotten to him. 

A buff man in a large coat pushes past him, startling him from his reverie. Saihara shakes his head and starts walking. He’s supposed to be halfway to the train station by now, because the Monday morning crowds are the worst. Technically, it doesn’t matter much in the end, but he quickens his pace nonetheless. Might as well keep up appearances.

He isn’t really paying attention to where he’s going. At this point, he’s numb to the streets of Tokyo and their insanity, and it’s easier to just pack himself into the steady stream of people going nowhere in particular, like salmon swimming up the river.

So, he almost doesn’t notice her. In fact, if he hadn’t raised his head to get a better look at the streetlights, he probably would’ve missed her entirely. Just two people, passing by in a herd of strangers. It happens every single day. How many million missed connections are there?

He sees her hair first. He can’t help being drawn to the sight; he doesn’t see a lot of blondes in Tokyo. It’s not meant to be much more than a quick glance, a fleeting look that will not mean anything.

Instead, he skids to a halt as his eyes land on the pristine face of Kaede Akamatsu.

They do not stop to stare at each other in the middle of the street. She keeps walking like she didn’t see him at all, until she’s out of sight.

Saihara stares, his mouth hanging open like an idiot. He’s being pulled down the street now, shoved by the unending pack of people. He doesn’t get a chance to breathe until he’s inside the train station, and even then, he can’t seem to pump oxygen into his lungs. 

Everything around him feels fake. Stale. Unclean. He pinches himself, wondering if he’ll jolt awake in his futon at three in the morning. 

Nothing happens. He desperately pinches himself again, trying to wake up from this cruel, slice of life themed nightmare.

There’s an announcement overhead. He’s going to miss his train. He’s going to miss his train, because he’s hallucinating a girl who died three years ago.

He doesn’t remember deciding to sprint, only that he regrets it when his lungs heave, and the doors close in front of him anyways.

Something is wrong. Something is very,  _ very _ wrong.

* * *

“Akamatsu is dead.”

Saihara pinches the bridge of his nose. “I  _ know _ she’s dead. I remember watching her die, thank you very much.”

Harukawa shrugs and goes back to the magazine she’s reading. “You’re the one who asked for my opinion.”

It’s true, but that answer isn’t anything like the one he wanted. Then again, he should’ve known better than to think that asking  _ Maki Harukawa _ of all people for emotional support would end well. It’s not even a dig at her, it’s just not something she’s ever been good at.

In fact, if any of them are equipped to offer it, it’s Saihara himself. And that’s not going anywhere. The only person he refuses to be kind and patient with is himself.

“Tell your therapist,” Harukawa says, not looking up. She turns a glossy page effortlessly, and he can’t tell if he envies her or not. “Maybe there’s something you can do for hallucinations like that.”

Saihara sighs and finds himself staring at their kitchen clock. He hates it. Yumeno bought it at a thrift store, thinking it would fit right in on the wall, but it doesn’t hang right and the hands are crooked. Half the time, it doesn’t even work. Right now, it’s three hours and nine minutes slow.

“Would you?” Saihara asks, hardly thinking about it.

Harukawa shrugs. “You’ll have to be more specific. Would I what?”

Saihara keeps staring at the clock, watching as the hands twitch back and forth. “If it was you seeing things. Would you see if you could make it stop?”

Harukawa closes the magazine, sets it on the glass coffee table, then gets up from the couch and stands next to him. He can tell that she’s hoping he’ll turn to look at her, but his eyes don’t leave the secondhand timepiece. 

“Of course I would,” she says simply. There’s no barbed wire in her voice, but it makes him flinch just the same.

Saihara hates her, just a little bit. And not even for the right reasons.

* * *

The snowman’s smile is sagging ever so slightly.

Saihara leans on the old elm tree, watching as Yumeno runs around in the yard, kicking up snow, as she sets up what looks like a ritualistic sacrifice using the garden gnomes she bought online three weeks ago.

He doesn’t get it. He thinks it’s definitely better this way.

Smoke rises from his cigarette, and he lightly taps the ash off it before taking another drag. This is quite possibly the worst thing he could be doing, in regards to both his lungs and his mental health, but it’s helping him focus on something that isn’t Akamatsu’s face.

“Saihara-kun!” Yumeno calls out, waving at him. He puts out his cigarette and waves back, unsure of what she wants. If it’s ‘face trial by gnome jury’, he’ll pass.

She skips up to him and pulls the cigarette from his hand, crushing it with her bare hands. “You told me you were quitting.”

He closes his eyes. “I’m trying. It’s hard, you know.”

Yumeno sticks out her tongue. “I know! I’m helping!”

He ruffles her hair, and she wrenches his arm off. She’s gotten stronger in the last three years. The mixed martial arts lessons have been doing her good.

“Come look at my gnome wedding,” Yumeno says, grabbing his wrist and pulling him along.

Saihara raises an eyebrow. “It’s a wedding?”

Yumeno nods. “The snowman is the one officiating. Duh.”

“Of course. How could I be so foolish,” Saihara replies, trying not to roll his eyes.

Thankfully, that gets her to laugh.

Saihara examines the gnome wedding the way a good friend should. After humouring her, he asks, “Are you happy?”

Yumeno kneels in the snow, moving two of the gnomes so they look like they’re kissing. “Sometimes. And that’s enough for me.”

The sticks that make up the snowman’s smile fall off, hitting one of the gnomes in the face.

“I think it would make you happy too,” Yumeno says.

Saihara reaches down to pick up the sticks, and slowly presses them back into the grooves of the snowman. He isn’t sure if he believes her. Not because he thinks she’s lying, but simply because he’s afraid of what it would mean if she was right.

* * *

“I wish I could hate you.”

Shirogane wrinkles her nose and looks him up and down. After a few moments of tense silence, she says, “Hello to you too, Saihara-kun.”

They stand in the doorway of her apartment for a while longer, before he sighs deeply. “Can I come in?”

Shirogane moves aside, fixing him with a strange look as she does so. Once he’s inside, she closes the door and leads him over to the worn sofa in her living room. They sit, side by side, in silence. 

Shirogane doesn’t live with the other survivors of season 53 for several reasons. To begin with, the rest of them didn’t even know she was alive until long after they had settled elsewhere. Additionally, it had taken Saihara nearly a year to stop wanting to kill her.

They’d asked her if she wanted to move in with them, after he had come to his senses, but she claimed she preferred solitude. They all knew that was a lie, but haven’t pushed her on it.

“How are you doing?” Saihara asks.

Shirogane closes her hand around the cane she uses to walk. “You didn’t come all the way here to make small talk.”

It’s true. But he shrugs anyways. “Maybe I’m curious about your life. Since you don’t talk to me.”

Harukawa calls her frequently, and he knows that she and Yumeno visit Shirogane regularly. Every so often, Saihara suspects that they plan on disappearing in the middle of the night to stay with her for good.

His stomach clenches.

Shirogane pushes up her glasses and leans back on the sofa. “My life isn’t very interesting these days. The most exciting thing I did recently was have lunch with my ex-girlfriend and her spouse.”

“I don’t know what part of that statement is the most surprising,” Saihara says.

Shirogane says, “We’re on good terms, now that she knows I’m not dead. And having that friendship, while knowing she’s happily moved on, is really more than I could ever ask for.”

Saihara tries to ignore the pain in his chest. “I still wish I could hate you.”

“You mentioned that,” she replies dryly. She sounds just the slightest bit like Harukawa. It’s unnerving.

He hates that he can’t bring himself to hate her anymore. Tsumugi Shirogane, in the grand scheme of things, is nothing more than a corporate puppet. Just one of thousands of interns, looking for a chance to actually matter to a company willing to slaughter anyone in sight.

It’s sickening. Sickening that Team Dangan Ronpa could snuff out every songbird along the way. That they manipulated — and on some accounts, abused — every single young adult desperate enough for work.

Until three years ago, ‘Successful Internship with Team Dangan Ronpa’ looked exceptional on resumes, and was an excellent source of university recommendations.

“Saihara-kun?” Shirogane prompts, “Why are you here?”

He stares at her. Stares into her deep blue eyes as his stomach clenches. He came here for answers, because if anyone can tell him what he really needs to know, it’s  _ her. _

And it terrifies him.

As though sensing his nerves, she reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t shove her off.

“I’m seeing things,” Saihara says finally, “I genuinely thought I walked past Akamatsu-san the other day.”

Shirogane sighs. “Ah. You too.”

He quirks a brow. “Really?”

She says, “It was the worst when my wounds were fresh. Every now and then, I see a face pass by that must belong to someone I’ve lost. But it always turns to dust before long.”

Saihara says, “It felt real.  _ She  _ felt real. If I wasn’t certain she was dead, I’d say it really was her.”

He went to Akamatsu’s funeral. Every now and then, he leaves flowers on her grave. Maybe he needs to do that again, so she’ll stop haunting him.

She’s silent, so Saihara keeps talking, “Do you know how hard it is to live with them? I can’t talk about the killing game without feeling guilty.”

“Would you rather live with me?” Shirogane asks.

Saihara scowls. “No.”

Shirogane grabs her cane and stands up, walking away from him. Her voice carries across the small apartment. “Have you asked them for advice?”

“Do you think I’d be here if I hadn’t tried that first?” Saihara rolls his eyes, and begins to wonder if this was a waste of time.

He hears her refrigerator open as she says, “Point taken. What did they say?”

Saihara closes his eyes. “They told me that I should try to forget. But I don’t  _ want _ that. If I wanted to forget everything that happened to me, I would’ve asked for the operation when I left.”

Shirogane returns to the couch, now holding a small bowl of cut up strawberries. She offers it to him, and he only hesitates a little bit before taking one.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she says, “I can’t help you. All I did for Team Dangan Ronpa was make costumes, you know.”

And play their ringleader. The unspoken words hang between them as they eat unevenly sliced strawberries on Shirogane’s couch.

He doesn’t hate her anymore, but he doesn’t like her either. It’s probably not the weirdest relationship she has, but it certainly is his.

* * *

He’s on the train home when he sees her next.

Saihara isn’t paying much attention to the orange-yellow lights, or to how the car rattles back and forth along the track. He just sits politely, bag on his lap, trying not to take up any more space than absolutely necessary. The train is surprisingly empty for this time of day.

He isn’t really thinking when it happens. The train has come to a brief halt at the station, meaning it won’t be long before his own stop. And he  _ really _ doesn’t mean to stare at strangers. It’s impolite, and random passersby have only just stopped accosting him for autographs.

But when she sits down in the seat exactly across from him, he freezes up completely. Akamatsu is dead in the ground, she  _ must _ be, but that doesn’t seem to have stopped her from being on the same train to Sangen-jaya as him, and it makes him want to retch.

She doesn’t look at him. Her gaze is focused on her phone. Saihara watches her for a few moments, wondering if the hallucination will dissipate if he comes to terms with it. When she doesn’t so much as flicker, he nervously reaches for his phone.

He feels like a creep, taking a photo of a woman on a train without her knowledge, but it’s the only thing coming to mind at the moment. Hallucinations don’t show up in photos, right? He ensures his flash is off before snapping it, and hurries to take a look.

Kaede Akamatsu is plain as day in the picture. Saihara shoves his phone into his bag, hoping he doesn’t look suspicious. The last thing he needs right now is to explain a criminal charge to Harukawa and Yumeno.

Akamatsu gets off the train at Shibuya station. He does too, because he needs to change lines, but genuinely considers following her. In the half a second it takes him to realize that that is a horrible idea, he loses her in the sea of people.

Defeated, Saihara makes his way home with a disgusted feeling in his throat.

* * *

“You  _ what?!” _

Harukawa looks like she’s only a couple seconds away from slapping him across the face. Saihara braces himself instinctively, but the pain never comes.

“Look, I just had to know if I was really seeing things,” he says, trying to defend himself.

Harukawa scowls. “I don’t care! That poor woman! Saihara, delete that photo right this second. I’m ashamed of you.”

She reaches for his phone, but doesn’t manage to grab it before Yumeno snatches it to look at the photo. Harukawa tries to pull it from her hands, but Yumeno climbs onto the kitchen counter first.

“Oh my god. She really does look like Akamatsu,” Yumeno says, staring in shock.

Saihara covers his mouth. “So I’m not crazy?”

Harukawa grabs the phone. “You’re both— What the hell?”

The two girls only know what Akamatsu looks like because of the concept art on the Team Dangan Ronpa website that he’s looked at while trying to hold himself together. So for both of them to see the same girl in the photo is simultaneously relieving and  _ very _ unnerving.

Harukawa taps on the screen, deleting the photo. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure there was a reasonable explanation.”

“Yeah, maybe she was one of those… Kinnies?” Yumeno cocks her head curiously. “The thing Tsumugi used to do.”

“Do you mean cosplayer?” Saihara asks. When Yumeno nods, he frowns and closes his eyes. “No. No, that isn’t it.”

Harukawa says, “I’m sure they have wigs available that—”

Saihara clenches his fists. “It was her  _ face.  _ This wasn’t some costume! I swear to god, it was her!”

Harukawa hands him back his phone. “I think you should get in contact with the Dangan Ronpa neurosurgeons. Saihara, I hate seeing you like this.”

Saihara scowls at her. “Screw you. You’re such a coward! Both of you are complete cowards! Why would you want to forget your friends?! Who  _ loved _ you?!”

Yumeno cowers in a heap.

“Because I don’t want to be Maki Harukawa!” Harukawa cries, tears in her eyes. She pulls at her hair, shaking. “I don’t want to be a stupid, emotionless,  _ horror show _ of a person! If I don’t remember the killing game, then I don’t have to be the stock character they made me into!”

“Bullshit!” Saihara shouts back, “If that’s what you care about, then why are you even here?! Why do you have anything to do with the rest of us?! You’re just  _ pathetic!” _

Harukawa lunges forwards, her fist colliding with his jaw. As he hits the floor, he hears the front door slam as she departs.

This isn’t the first time they’ve had this fight, but it’s never escalated like this before. Saihara sits on the floor, rubbing the harsh bruises on his face, and groans. 

Yumeno crawls up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. Under her breath, she whispers, “They made forgetting sound so holy.”

“Yeah?” Saihara says, starting to comb his fingers through her hair.

Yumeno sniffles. “You saw how I was. Constant nightmares and flashbacks. I was desperate.”

Saihara whispers, “I thought the operation made you happy.”

“Only sometimes,” Yumeno replies, wiping her eyes. “Usually, I just feel guilty.”

They don’t say much for a while. It’s weirdly comforting, despite the pain blossoming across his face. Saihara watches the broken clock, counting the minutes and hours best he can.

Harukawa doesn’t come back that night. In fact, they don’t see her for almost a week. When she  _ does  _ return, she doesn’t apologize, but she doesn’t gloat either. Rather, she acts as if they never fought in the first place.

It makes Saihara resent her even more.

* * *

The graveyard is empty of the living.

Saihara weaves through the tombstones, heading for the largest one at the very back. A couple times, he slips on the ice forming under the snow, but makes it all the way to Akamatsu’s grave without dropping the bouquet in his arms.

Gently, he lays it down against the headstone, tears burning in his eyes. There have been a couple visitors recently, judging by the other mementos leaning on it, but none today.

This is the final resting place of lost Dangan Ronpa contestants. It makes him sick, seeing the hundreds and hundreds of lives lost to a goddamn television show. He can’t tell if what’s worse; that he was almost among them, or that he used to respect such an endeavor. 

He can’t tell. It’s hard to remember.

Part of him actually wouldn’t mind forgetting, if it meant that he didn’t have to live with this constant weight on his chest. The rest of him feels treacherous for even entertaining the notion. If Saihara knows one thing for certain, it’s that he’d rather die than somehow revert to who he was before he was destroyed on live television.

It’s so cold here.

As Saihara pulls his jacket tighter around himself, he takes a step back and bumps into someone he didn’t hear approaching. As he turns around to apologize, all words die in his throat as he stares at Akamatsu’s face yet again.

She doesn’t say anything. His heart threatens to either burst from his chest, or stop beating entirely.

“Look,” he croaks, barely able to stop his knees from giving out, “I don’t know what I did to you or your ghost. But I can’t live like this. What will it  _ take?” _

She’s still and silent like a statue. Saihara doesn’t dare touch her; he won’t risk shattering her pristine granite. He doesn’t understand, but he wants to throw up.

Finally, she speaks, and her voice is just as soft as the day he lost her. “Let’s go sit down.”

Saihara mindlessly follows her down the hill and to the nearest bench. The dark green paint is flaking. They sit, side by side, without a word between them.

All he’s really registered is that she’s leaving footsteps. If she’s a figment of his imagination, then she’s a damn good one.

“I never should have come back to Tokyo,” she says at last. It doesn’t answer any of the thousands of questions that are festering like a wound inside his lungs.

Snow starts to fall again. Saihara shivers as one lands on the back of his neck. When she doesn’t provide any further insight, he asks, “Akamatsu-san? Is that really you?”

She doesn’t look at him. “In the flesh. Is it so hard to believe?”

_ Yes, _ his brain immediately exclaims,  _ Yes, because you’re dead. _

Akamatsu says, “I don’t know if there’s any way to prove that to you. Anyone who watched the broadcast could list off things we said to each other.”

“I was at your grave,” Saihara clenches his fists, desperate to process the influx of information. “You’re buried there. I went to your funeral. I watched you  _ die.” _

“Did you?” Akamatsu asks. It’s no less puzzling than anything else that’s happened today. She still won’t even turn her head.

Saihara swallows the fire coming up his throat and grabs her hand. She stiffens, then squeezes his hand so tightly that it nearly cuts off the circulation. They don’t look like lovers. They look like estranged acquaintances who have no idea how to live with themselves anymore.

“I was too smart for the showrunners,” Akamatsu says at last. She sighs deeply, as though she’s aged greatly in the last three years. “I had it all figured out right away. Shirogane-san, Dangan Ronpa, even that they planned to replace me as soon as possible.”

Saihara says quietly, “I heard an executive producer say they killed you for shock value.”

Akamatsu nods. “Correct. They couldn’t have me running around like that. But I managed to cut a deal. They’d kill off my character, but let me live.”

Saihara whispers, “So I’ve been grieving for someone who wasn’t even dead?”

Akamatsu lets go of his hand and politely folds her own in her lap. “I suppose so. I intended for you to believe I was dead forever. But I couldn’t resist coming back.”

“You  _ wanted _ me to stay in mourning?” Saihara asks, screwing up his face.

Akamatsu brushes some of the snow gathered on her head away. “Are you still in love with me?”

It stings. “No,” he says.

Akamatsu huffs. “Liar.”

“I’m not in love with  _ you,”  _ Saihara clarifies, trying to ignore how bitter his mouth tastes right now. “I’m in love with who I thought you  _ were.” _

Akamatsu says, “That’s the same thing. She’s still me.”

Saihara frowns. “You think so? Who I was before everything, and who they made me into… and even who I am now all feel like different people.”

“You can’t just make a person out of nothing,” Akamatsu replies evenly, “At their core, all of those yous are the same. But I won’t argue that coexisting with yourself isn’t a war all its own.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. They sit quietly for some time.

“I had a sister,” Akamatsu says suddenly, “Tsukiko. She was older by eight minutes.”

Saihara quirks a brow. “I thought you having a twin was something Shirogane made up to make a Junko Enoshima parallel.”

Akamatsu says, “Well, that’s the only reason she brought it up. But she was real.”

Saihara frowns. “Past tense?”

For the first time since they sat down, Akamatsu turns and looks into his eyes. “I cut a deal. But Team Dangan Ronpa needed someone to put in that grave.”

Horror washes over him like a tidal wave, and he covers his mouth. She closes her eyes, and for the first time, he notices the dark bags circling her face.

“She was an intern,” Akamatsu says weakly, “She worked with the division that altered the participants’ memories. I guess she was just as expendable as anyone else.”

“I’m so sorry,” Saihara whispers.

She rubs her eyes. “We shouldn’t meet again. It’s best if you pretend this never happened.”

Saihara cries, “But—!”

“But nothing,” Akamatsu says firmly, conviction spilling from her lips. “You got your closure, Saihara-kun. Our wounds will never properly heal if we become permanent parts of each other’s lives.”

Saihara’s heart cracks in his chest. “I know. I know, but I don’t want to lose you again.”

She stands, and he gets up with her, uselessly grabbing her by the wrist. He’s terrified that if he lets go, she’ll disintegrate in front of him.

Akamatsu faces him again, her purple eyes weary and wounded. Then, she leans forwards and kisses him on the cheek. It’s soft, like the touch of a dove.

“Goodbye, Saihara-kun,” she murmurs, “May we never meet again.”

As he stands rooted to the ground in shock, she pulls her wrist free, and disappears into the flurry of snow picking up around them. Her footsteps vanish just as quickly.

He wishes she hadn’t done that. Wishes she had just walked away without tearing him open again, raw and bleeding. It almost doesn’t feel real, but her phantom touch isn’t something he’ll ever get out of his head.

He presses a hand to his cheek and sobs.

* * *

“You were gone for a really long time.”

Harukawa greets him like this as soon as he walks through their door. He stares at her, standing at the stove in an attempt to cook something worthwhile. He stares at Yumeno, who’s peering at him over the back of the couch with concerned eyes.

Saihara leans against the wall, ignoring how Yumeno squawks as he tracks snow onto the floor. For a minute, he doesn’t say anything, and just soaks in the scent of tomatoes and rosemary coming from the steaming pot in the kitchen.

“I don’t want to forget,” he finally gets out.

Harukawa abandons her position and throws her arms around his shoulders. It’s kind of an awkward hug, and it doesn’t feel any less weird when Yumeno springs up to join in. But it’s real, and it’s theirs.

After a minute, Yumeno mumbles, “The soup’s gonna burn.”

Harukawa breaks free and sprints back to the stove, hissing in time with the battered pot. Saihara wonders if they got it from the same thrift store as the clock. Said clock is now six hours and eight minutes slow.

“I can save it,” she says finally, moving it to a different burner.

Yumeno cheers, and Saihara smiles. It only hurts a little bit.

Harukawa stirs the soup with a wooden spoon. “I invited Tsumugi to join us this evening. I hope that’s fine with you.”

It’s been a while since he’s seen her. It might be nice to put the old feelings aside and try to craft new memories with her. Really, all he can do now, especially after today, is get on with the rest of his life.

“I can’t wait to see her,” Saihara says, and he means it.

Yumeno beams and runs to the cupboards to start setting the table. Saihara kicks off his snow boots, but stays leaning on the wall as the others bustle around cheerfully.

Maybe it hurts more than he’d like to admit. 


End file.
